


The Art of Love Letters

by Thetis



Category: Original Work
Genre: Boarding School, Gen, Girls Being Girls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thetis/pseuds/Thetis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aside from putting up with her father, Miranda Etchel has it pretty good:  she comes from an otherwise respectable, wealthy family and is an honor roll student at the prestigious Brooks Academy.  Being well-liked and reasonably popular is just the icing on the proverbial cake.  </p>
<p>However, the staid routine at Brooks is shattered when the outsider on a full scholarship winds up in the same English class as Miranda.  She and Carole Sinclair have never gotten along, and the rivalry only heats up when forced into close quarters of mutual loathing.  While English is one of Miranda's best subjects, she's no match for the brilliant, caustic Carole, who takes care to ensure Miranda is aware of her personal deficiencies.</p>
<p>After one too many blows to the ego, Miranda, with inspiration from her circle of friends, concocts a scheme to best Carole at her own game:  woo the outcast with love letters from a secret admirer.  But when Carole chooses to fight back, Miranda finds herself embroiled in a surprisingly engaging, yet dangerous competition that threatens former friendships and the status quo at Brooks.</p>
<p>Who will be the victor, and is it really about winning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 20th

_To M.B._

Despite growing evidence, Miranda Etchel refused to believe she was a dunce. She was smart, maybe even well-read, and unlike Nikki, she got into the hardest class by merit. But English class took more than just reading skills. It was also about writing, and therein lay the problem: Miranda detested writing with a fervent passion. Though she had done well enough on the placement test to get into the double-block AP English on Monday mornings, she had only a passing understanding of basic punctuation and grammar.

Perhaps Miranda still could be taught if someone bothered to take the time to assist with remedial lessons, were it not for one thing that masked this--admittedly large--problem. Miranda’s observations were a huge leap above the average, so most of the uninspired teachers at Brooks, wearied over their disappointing careers, passed her through with nary a correction to her typo-laden essays a half-literate child would wince at.

However, this English teacher, Miss Clellan, was fresh out of college and had yet to have her ideals beaten out of her. To Miranda’s mortification, Clellan was far more stringent on writing mechanics than her lackluster predecessors. Miranda usually had some points docked for her incoherent sentences, but two whole letter grades were beyond the pale. While not a scholar, Miranda took pride in her good grades, and it was appalling to watch her A’s and occasional B’s in English dipping into C’s and D’s.

Her parents--at least Mom--would not be pleased when she came home this semester.

Despite already substantial reasons to despise AP English, Monday mornings, and the whole ordeal, she had another complaint and it topped them all. One that actually made her doubt herself and transformed her distaste for AP English into passionate hatred.

“Miranda, would you care to join us?”

The girl stirred from her internal diatribe, cheeks flaming. “Sorry, Miss Clellan. Could you repeat that?”

In spite of her youth, the school marm had the stiffest posture out of all the teachers she had at Brooks Academy. And Miranda had been here since preschool. Miss Clellan eyed the girl with her hawk’s stare, holding it for several long moments. Miranda held up, wondering who spat in Clellan's cornflakes this morning. But the teacher was the first to turn away, returning to her synopsis of James' novel.

A note landed on her desk, and after a surreptitious glance at the teacher, Miranda opened it.

_We’re on page ___. Isabel and her marriage to Os-what’s-his-face._

Miranda couldn’t resist sneaking a glance backwards. A brunette in pigtails gave her a wink. Miranda returned a wry grin.

“Any thoughts on the concluding decision of The Portrait of a Lady?” asked Miss Clellan. Focusing her gaze towards the back, she said, “Since you were so eager to help our daydreamer today, Nikki, would you like to offer an opinion?”

Her eyes were sharper than Miranda thought. Clellan apparently had perfect vision, along with an intimidating glare. The giggles subsided, and the class fell silent. Nikki’s nose wrinkled. “Um, no, ma’am, I...” Clellan let the silence stretch, staring down at Nikki from her podium.

The student gulped. Though a part of Miranda's inner circle, Nikki was not made of the same stuff. “I’m sorry,” Nikki admitted, “I haven’t gotten that far in the reading.”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut. “Very well. Two demerits, Nikki. Let this be a warning not to come to class unprepared.”  
Grumbling could be heard from Nikki's direction, but with another sharp glance, it died down.

_One good turn deserves another, if a little late_ , Miranda thought. She raised her hand. “I was disappointed with the conclusion of Portrait, Miss Clellan.”

The teacher nodded. “Go on.”

“I read on the blurb that Isabel's concluding decision would be ‘one of the most moving in modern fiction.’ Well, I was not moved,” Miranda’s voice roiled with derision. “I was _disgusted_ by the cowardice she displayed, and the spineless wimp she turned into. She had the option of freedom from Osmond, and became too weak to take it.”

Miss Clellan nodded and a silence fell. “That’s an interesting conclusion to draw. Any others?”

By the window, someone raised her hand. “Yes?” said Clellan.

When she realized just who had volunteered her opinion, Miranda’s eyes narrowed. _Oh great, here we go_  again.

“For people who are merely reading and not digesting, that’s precisely why they end up with analyses unsubstantiated by fact.” And a nonplussed Miranda wondered, _What kind of egotistical loser talks like that_?

“Isabel could have run off with Casper Goodwood, but that action in of itself would constitute cowardice, for would not Isabel be ducking the responsibility of her own actions?” Miranda flushed.

“She chose to marry Osmond, chose that life, even knowing and seeing the hints that he was just using her. It takes a great deal of courage, not cowardice, to see things through to the end. Anyone who has _truly_ lived would not so easily disregard personal accountability.”

Attempting to control her temper, Miranda turned to face the calm and dignified blonde. “Did you miss the entire first half of the book, or did you cheat with Cliff Notes? Do you remember what Isabel was like in the first half of the novel, and how she ended up?”

“Hold up!” snapped Miss Clellan, sending a glare at the tall girl by the window. “Haven't I already warned both of you about arguing in class?”

Miranda crossed her arms, peering out at the other girl from the corner of her eye. “I didn't start this.”

Carole looked straight at her rather than the teacher, and Miranda shuffled uneasily under the gray stare. It certainly beat Miss Clellan’s hawklike gaze, as even the teacher became uneasy when Carole eyed her.

To Miranda, Carole replied, “To answer your question, I have read the entirety of Portrait twice, at least not counting rereads, paying ample attention to integral passages, and perhaps the ones you skipped over out of boredom.” Seeing Miranda’s twitch, she added, “You did read enough of the novel to understand what was going on.” Miss Clellan tried to interrupt again, but if the last remark was an attempt to be conciliatory, it had the opposite effect.

Miranda snapped, “What's so hard about backing out of a bad decision?”

Carole paused. “Sometimes you don't get a choice. You can either adapt to the consequences of your decision or complain about it or duck personal responsibility. Did you believe Isabel should have thrown a tantrum when things didn't go her way? I am aware that some people were born and raised like that.” Never did Carole’s voice change from her flat tones. “People do make mistakes, and it is rare when they can 'take it back.' Not all of us get that opportunity, Miss Etchel.”

“I know that, Miss Sinclair,” Miranda snarled.

Miss Clellan rapped a textbook on the podium, and Miranda wondered if the dilapidated wood could withstand the pressure. “All right, you two. Carole, if you disagree with Miranda, could you avoid needling her?”

Carole's face was devoid of expression. “Miss Clellan. What did you think of Miss Etchel's interpretation of Isabel's decision at the end of the novel?”

When Miss Clellan blanched, Miranda had to suppress her growl. Weakly, Clellan said, “I had a different conclusion than her, yes—”

“—if you felt her opinion was inaccurate, or rather completely incorrect, Miss Clellan, why did you not stop Miss Etchel from blundering and misleading the rest of the class?”

The teacher impressively managed to regain her composure. “That's besides the point, Carole. If you think Miranda had it wrong, you have all the right in the world to discuss the matter in a calm and rational manner. I won’t tolerate you provoking—”

Carole cut in, “Did I directly insult a student who is used to getting her own way?”

Miranda growled, “I'm not deaf! I heard you insinuate pointed insults in my—”

“Tell me, Miss Etchel,” Carole said. “At what point did I actually call you names and told you anything except that there's a lack of evidence for your theory?” Struck with the point like an impaled butterfly, Carole only looked down her long nose at Miranda, and Miranda felt her cheeks flame again.

Not trusting herself to respond, Miranda threw her belongings into her backpack, and slammed the door on her way out.  
Miss Clellan was rubbing her temples, while Nikki was casting the abused door a worried look. Miranda's other friend Candace had a wry expression on her face. Carole exhaled through her nose, and went back to staring out the window, face unreadable.

* * *

“I can’t let this happen every time I have a discussion with the AP English juniors.” Unlike the unflappable persona she attempted to maintain in class, Jacqueline Clellan was easily flustered outside of it. _And apparently that Sinclair girl can break my composure with little effort,_ she thought as she rubbed at her forehead. She neglected to get Carole Sinclair to stay behind so she could at least lecture her, which so far had done little, if any, good. But the girl had left with everyone else when she was issuing Nikki Juliano's demerits. Now, Jacqueline was beside herself with a frightful scowl on her face.

Sadly, the secretary in the main office was completely unable to see it. “Calm down,” said the voice on the phone.

“I—” Miss Clellan drew in another breath, trying to regain her bearings. “I'm not going to deny that Carole Sinclair is a brilliant student, but she shouldn't be allowed to run roughshod over everyone else in the class! Can't she be moved up to the seniors' English class?” _So I don't have to deal with her anymore_ went unsaid.

Patiently, the secretary replied, “Jacqueline, we understand that there has been an ongoing problem between Carole and Miranda in your class. But moving Carole to the seniors' class will provoke more complaints from the student body. And the parents, for that matter.”

“What?”

“Carole Sinclair is at Brooks Academy by the generosity of the headmistress. While her correcting the teachers and students is common enough, she has not broken any rules.”

“Carole should be disciplined if she keeps picking fights like this!” Miss Clellan snapped. “Could she be any more provocative when she discusses her opinion?”

“From my personal experience,” said the receptionist thoughtfully, “Carole doesn't believe in withholding uncomfortable facts. The truth comes first with her.”

The teacher frowned, digesting the statement. “Does she lack sensitivity to other people's feelings?”

A long sigh. “Jacqueline, are you sure the problem isn't about Miranda Etchel?”

Bewildered, Miss Clellan asked, “What about her? All right, she can be a bit touchy and impatient, but I wouldn't like it either if someone always tried to make me feel stupid.”

“Jacqueline, it's not just that,” the secretary sounded pained. “I know you're new, so I'll let you in on this: we have had problems accommodating Miranda as well. Many of the teachers have been reluctant to cross or correct her.”

“Because...” Jacqueline trailed off, although she could guess what was coming.

“With a father in the limelight of state politics, and a mother who has made many generous donations to Brooks...” the secretary trailed off. When Jacqueline remained silent, the secretary babbled, “Look, I don't approve of the politics either, but there are so many important people whose daughters attend Brooks Academy. You annoy the wrong person, you end up without a job.”

Miss Clellan sighed herself, rubbing her forehead. “I refuse to treat anyone as 'special,' regardless of whose family that student is a part of. If Carole and Miranda are getting into arguments that disrupt class discussion, something should be done about it. End of story.”

The reply was, “I am sure that Headmistress Carr will speak to Carole about the issue.”

_Isn't that what you told me last time?_ the teacher thought. Knowing that she was hitting the proverbial wall, she thanked the woman and hung up.

For the moment, it looked like Miss Clellan was on her own.

* * *

Sandra watched, sympathetic and slightly amused, as her roommate paced the length of their tiny dorm, the cramped space making the action look comical. “I can’t stand that—that—!” It was closer to noon when Miranda had returned from her morning classes. Sandra was reviewing her notes from physics on her bed, glasses glinting from slats of sunlight peeking in through the blinds.

“Vixen?” Sandra helpfully supplied.

“Vixen?” asked Miranda and they both started laughing. “That sounds like some medieval thing Miss Sinclair would say!” Sandra winced, and Miranda added placatingly, “You know I don’t mean that! Is ‘vixen’ even used anymore?” she asked between giggles.

Sandra replied, “The meaning's changed over time, but it once referred to either a female fox or a malicious, shrewish woman, frequently quarrelsome. Fitting, isn't it?”

“Ah, I see,” Miranda shook her head, the edge taken off her temper. Yet the passage of time had not yet soothed the injury, as she began pulling the goose feathers out of her pillow with agitation. Her voice took on a familiar mocking quality. “'Miss Etchel,' she says in that oh-so-polite language she uses, while she gouges your words in the neck with a side of insinuating comments. Who does Carole think she is?”

Sandra flipped a page of her notebook, not even looking up. “Someone a heck of a lot smarter than you.”

“Gee, some friend you are. With you around, who needs wenches like Carole?”

“'Wenches'? And you were complaining about Carole using archaic words?” Sandra stared at Miranda knowingly until her face was almost as red as her hair.

“Oh, shut up.”

Turning away from her book, Sandra said, “But the fact of the matter is that Carole didn’t get into Brooks on a full scholarship for being an idiot.”

Miranda’s shoulders slumped. “What then? Carole rubs that in my face enough.”

“Deal with it. It’s probably one of the inescapable facts of your life. Nikki will always be behind in her classes and need your help, Clellan’s posture will always be ramrod straight, and Carole will always be able to beat your argument into the ground.”

“Are you telling me I should just meekly acquiesce to whatever hand fate doles out to me?” Miranda sat down on her unmade bed with a huff. “Okay, I'm not as good as Carole at literary analysis, so she gets to humiliate me every Monday if I'm wrong?”

“But you do realize that every time you fight back, it only eggs her on?” Sandra said, but flinched at Miranda's glare. “Of course I don't think what she's doing is fair,” she hastily added. “But you can stand up to her without provoking her, yeah?”

Miranda blew her bangs out of her eyes, yet they flopped right back in place. “All right, Miss Valedictorian-Were-It-Not-for-Little-Orphan-Carole,” she remarked, seeing Sandra's shoulders hunch; it was a very sore point for Sandra to be elbowed into only second in their class. “How would you handle being made a fool of every Monday?”

“You're asking me?” muttered Sandra and Miranda hid a smile. “Miranda, you’re hardly a slouch in the brains department yourself, so you'll probably be able to figure out something that I haven't.” Quietly, Sandra admitted, “I've never been able to win an argument with the ice princess. And she just doesn't get bothered by people gossiping about her.”

“Yeah, I already tried to look for blackmail material,” was the bitter reply. Miranda sank back on her bed, muttering something barely audible about egotistical blondes with squeaky-clean reputations. “Topic shift. This is making me depressed. Got a date for the end-of-year dance?”

Sandra blinked owlishly from behind her spectacles. “Miranda, that’s over seven months away!”

“You said to focus on what I can do about the future, right?” She rolled over onto her back, hair bright against her navy sheets. “Hope I meet someone interesting.”

The other girl snorted. “Hoping to break your sixteen year dateless streak? I wonder why the popular Miss Etchel can't even get a date.”

If it had been anyone else but Sandra, who had been her playmate since they were in diapers, Miranda would have cut her down within seconds. With a shrug, Miranda decided to go easy on her, considering that she'd just brought up Carole outranking her. “Speaking of which, your boyfriend is where?”

“Unlike you, I care little for those things,” Sandra muttered unconvincingly.

“Wonder who Headmistress Carr's precious protege is going with...”

“Carole?” asked Sandra. “As much as I’d like to see her get humiliated like everybody else—” Miranda shot her an incredulous stare at the unusually vicious comment, “—don't stare at me like that, Miranda, you’re hardly Carole’s only victim—said frigid virgin probably has no sexual inclination whatsoever.” Sandra tapped her fingers thoughtfully, “Hey, now there's a thought.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wishing that Carole would marry someone just like her—”

“—and that she would have children just like her,” Miranda finished, completing the paraphrased quote. They burst into laughter.

The dorm phone rang, and Miranda reached it first. “Hello?”

“Afternoon, Miranda, how were classes today?” Miranda smiled, her shoulders loosening.

“Hold on,” she said, covering the receiver. “Sandra, it's my mom. Could I have some privacy?”

“Right,” sighed Sandra, dusting off her green plaid skirt. She picked up a stack of notecards and her physics notebook. “I can take a hint.”

Miranda watched her leave, then turned back to the phone. “Hey, Mom. Classes were fine,” she said quickly. She didn't want to get into her 2 on her A Midsummer's Night Dream paper she had gotten back first thing in class; it had only contributed to her rotten mood after today’s spectacle with Carole. “How's you?”

“Oh, everything's fine,” her mom said breezily. “Don't you worry. Gertrude was teaching me how to make filet mignon.”  Gertrude was the Etchels' gourmet chef.

Miranda's lips twitched. “How badly did you ruin it?”

Her mother scolded her, “Miranda, I don't ruin everything I cook.”

“Mom...” sighed Miranda, “you know you can tell me anything.”

A moody silence settled in, and Miranda counted the seconds off on the nearby alarm clock, its red numbers glaring at her. After seven seconds, there was a reluctant sigh. “It was borderline well-done, burnt on the edges. I discovered that mushrooms don’t taste too bad singed.”

She could almost picture her mom in tears as poor Gertrude probably ended up scouring the burnt pan. Miranda snickered. “It’s called charcoal-flavored.”

“Not funny,” her mother replied grumpily.

“Well, all right,” she relented.

“Listen, Miranda, I did call for a reason.”

“What for?”

A deep breath. “I was delivered the papers via postal mail by your father.” Miranda felt the bottom of her stomach fall out, and a familiar bitterness chilled her.

“How impersonal of him. By mail?” she sneered. “He couldn't even bother to present them in person. Busy little man, isn't he?” When her mother made a harsh gulp, she immediately regretted the words.

“I don't know, honey,” Mom said, tears in her voice. “I don't _know_.”

Miranda bit her lip. “When will this be done?”  
“I don't know that either,” her mother answered. “But...I...” she paused. “I wanted to tell someone, anyone. When the public finds out...” She could picture her mother shivering at the idea.

“What difference would it make if it was?” Miranda muttered, almost to herself. When her mother took another gulp, she sighed. “They’ll find out eventually, what with Dad thinking of running for public office, the ambitious thug.” Her mom remained silent. “It’s not your fault, Mom. No matter what he says. I could never understand why you...”

“I can't change anything, stop it from happening...” her voice broke off. “Miranda...” her mom's voice was almost a sob, “I don't know what to do.”

Miranda felt wholly inadequate for the entire conversation, but push her way through she did. “Just...tackle it one problem at a time, Mom. Day by day, week by week.”

“I'm sorry,” her mom said for what must've been for the hundredth time over the last year and a half. “I'll deal with it, Miranda. I just...I wanted to tell someone.”

“It's no big deal,” Miranda lied. “You probably should get some dinner,” she suggested, looking at the setting sun. “And get to bed early.”

“Thanks, dear,” her mother did sound a little better. “I'm so glad I got to hear from you. Get your homework done, okay? And I'll see you over Thanksgiving break. I love you.”

“Yeah,” Miranda said. “I love you too, Mom.” When Miranda hung up, she lowered herself to her bed, hands massaging her temples. _Sometimes_ I _feel like the mom in this relationship_ , she thought ruefully. _And even if Dad's an idiot, a stupid, undependable idiot, I still don't like seeing how much of an idiot he is from the way he treats Mom. And she just_ lets _him_.

When Miranda felt a familiar sting in her eyes, she angrily stared straight into the orange sunset. She could remember how carefree she had been before she had known any of her parents' problems, and almost wished that she still was ignorant of what was going on. While her mother rolled over like a whipped dog for him, her father...it hurt so much when she remembered how much she loved him before he utterly betrayed them both.

The tears began to fall when Miranda tried to recall when she had last talked to him, _really_ talked with him, and realized she could not remember.


	2. September 24th

Although it was fall, the Indian summer lingered and the student body had been given permission by the headmistress to remove their sweater vests.  On the manicured lawn just outside of Brooks's cafeteria, there was the unmistakable sound of rustling leaves and page flipping.  

“What’s the periodic symbol for gold?” Nikki yelped, pawing through her chemistry textbook.

Ivy and Desiree exchanged exasperated looks as Desiree said without checking, “Au.”

“Thanks,” Nikki said, dumping the book unceremoniously, and moving onto her notebooks.  “But I lost my notes for Berenstein’s lecture on World War I!  I thought I left it _in_ here,” she growled, shaking another innocent textbook in a futile attempt to loosen the jammed papers.

“Do you want me to list who broke whose treaties?” Candace said, taking a notebook and pushing it in front of Nikki's nose.  “It _is_ confusing.”

The girl's face lit up.  “What would I do without you, Candace?”  She began to copy down the lists.

Clad in green plaid skirts and button-down shirts, a group of girls were seated on the grass, crowded under a large oak tree.  Red, gold, and still-green leaves continued to cascade from above. Under the tree there was shade and a faint breeze, creating a marginally cooler atmosphere.  

Amidst turning leaves, a disordered heap of textbooks, notebooks, papers, and writing utensils were splayed on a tablecloth.  Late Friday afternoons were a popular time for study groups, and the in crowd at Brooks was cramming just outside the gardens.

“Where’s our fearless leader?” asked Candace drily, shuffling geometry flashcards like a deck of playing cards.  Candace was a beautiful girl with long wavy blonde hair who looked airbrushed straight from a fashion magazine, if one disregarded that she was dressed in the same green and gray uniform everyone else had on.  Candace distinguished herself in other ways.  She had the helpful photographic memory—at least about everything _outside_ of what was being taught in the classroom.

Nikki was sprawled on her stomach, steadily tapping a mechanical pencil against her notebook.  “Hmm.  Miranda had to go to the library to take a book out on...Wordsworth, I think.”

Candace shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing, “That girl’s taking a beating in AP English.”  Her green eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Not as much as I am,” Nikki groused.

“But that’s normal,” Sandra spoke up.  Nikki’s freckled nose crinkled.  She grabbed and chucked an origami swan, originally a geometry worksheet, at Sandra, who laughed as she ducked.  “Don’t take offense, Nikki, it’s a fact.  On the other hand, English was usually Miranda’s best subject.”

Nikki sighed, flipping a pigtail out of the way of her Cartesian graph.  “It’s not really _her_ fault.  It’s Carole always making her look bad.”

Sandra made a wry noise.  “Heard about the royal smackdown Carole laid on her last Monday from Miranda herself.  Bad as it sounded, or was she exaggerating again?”

“Probably even more humiliating, I was there,” Candace replied.  Nikki nodded vehemently, and Sandra grimaced.  Candace added gleefully, “Did you see the way Carole went to town on Mr. Salvador yesterday about relying on counterfactuals in historical arguments?”  Her voice took on a lower pitch without any inflection.  “'I find it sad that I can formulate a better and more convincing thesis than you.'”  

Candace's mock-impression of Carole was so pitch-perfect they all started laughing.  Another girl, Desiree, chimed in.  “Yeah, after Carole was done with him, I swear he was about to burst into tears.”  Her dark oval face was complimented by her thin dreadlocks, neatly pulled back into a half-ponytail.  Giving up on her statistics problem set, she had switched to painting her toenails bright red with little cotton balls between her toes, whilst flipping through this month's _Seventeen_.

A short girl, Ivy, muttered, “That would have been unnerving.”  She and Desiree were sophomores and best friends and roommates.  She was starting to sketch another steamy drawing, an embraced couple sharing a passionate kiss.  It was on the same sheet of paper as her lab notes.

“To say the least!” exclaimed Sandra.  Nervous laughs all around.

Sunlight pressed down against the girls, and Nikki pulled at her sticky tie.  She declared, “Carole’s a menace that must be stopped.”

The girls erupted in a resounding chorus of agreement.  But speak of the devil, a familiar blonde head walked by, and everyone fell silent.  Carole walked past them, paying them no mind as they stared and whispered, seemingly preoccupied with the book— _Robinson Crusoe—_ she was reading.  Despite the heat, she was dressed in a long white shirt and dark leggings, bucking the popular knee-high socks trend favored by most of the others.  She stopped at a nearby water fountain, and promptly went back to reading her book.  

As she walked past the flock of girls, Desiree sneered, “Are you staying at school over break again, Little Orphan Carole?”

Carole didn’t lift her head from her book.  “Yes.  Desiree, there’s something stuck in your front tooth.  As for the rest of you, you can pick your jaws off the ground.”  

Once she was out of earshot, the girls shook off the stunned silence.

“What a _jerk_ ,” said Ivy, more out of habit.  “The _nerve_.”  Sandra’s head bowed, but said nothing.  

Candace turned sympathetically to Desiree, and to no one’s surprise, Carole was right.  “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who wants to see that brat get hers.”  She gave Desiree her hand mirror, face openly curious as she looked in the direction that Carole had gone.  “Since Carole Sinclair's only been here since ninth grade, everything that's known about her is public knowledge—she's a local egghead who got in on scholarship.  Nobody can figure out if she’s just a lucky relative of the headmistress or what.”  Given the disconcerted looks at Candace, they were as equally ignorant about Carole as she was.  

As a flushed Desiree took care of her tooth, Nikki exploded, “What is that girl’s problem?”

Candace shrugged.  “Maybe her mother didn’t hug her enough as a child?  That's been known to cause problems.”

Nikki snorted.  “I doubt it.”

“Then what?” said Candace, flipping open her music folder.  “How would you know anything of how Carole ended up being the monster she is?  How do you know if she wasn't raised properly or was just _born_ that way?”  Nikki shut her mouth with a snap, her freckled face mottled.  

After a few minutes of paper shuffling and silent reading, Sandra said thoughtfully, “I did think of a way to get back at her.”

Nikki turned so fast that Sandra was in awe that the movement hadn’t given her whiplash.  “You’re kidding me!  Tell us!”

“Yeah, c’mon!” Ivy pushed.  “You'll have the eternal gratitude of Brooks.”

Sandra bit her lip.  “Don’t know, it’s kind of mean.”

Desiree was beside herself.  “And what she just did wasn’t?”

Sandra looked upward at the blazing afternoon sun, and wiped at her forehead.  She swallowed audibly, then said, “I still need to work out the details.  Ask me again later.”

There were groans of protest, but it was quickly forgotten when Nikki shrieked that she lost her notes on electrons.

* * *

 At sundown, Candace left for band practice, while Ivy and Desiree went to their shared dorm to plan their weekend.  Sandra was finishing up the last of her physics homework, and unusually, Nikki stayed to the very end, leaning against the trunk of an oak tree, looking at the windswept grounds of Brooks.  

When Sandra had at last figured out the momentum of the ball in the last problem, she capped her pen, sighing.  Nikki noticed and turned towards her.

“So.  What was it?”

Sandra glanced up from her scattered notes, her brain feeling overheated, responding absently, “What was what?”

Nikki giggled lightly.  “The plan to ruin Carole.”

Her hair mussed, the girl did not even bother to look up.  She wanted to go back to her dorm and shower off the sweat.  “Eh, Miranda and I were talking a few days ago.  When she was still upset about being humiliated over—”

“ _Portrait_ , yeah.  I was there.”

“Where’s my pencil—” Sandra muttered, “—oh, behind my ear.  We got to chatting how frigid Carole is, and how she’d probably never find a boyfriend.  Wondered who she was going to take to the end-of-year dance.”

“Ah,” the tone was edged with an emotion Sandra couldn't recognize.  She looked over at the freckled girl, but discovered she could not see her face, obscured by the long shadow of the tree.

Sandra continued, “I was thinking about that old Aesop fable of the lion and the girl he fell in love with.  As the story goes, the father objected and said the lion would have to relinquish his claws, then his fangs.  And the lion willingly had this done, so in love he was.”

“And?” Nikki cut in.

“Well, think of Carole as that lion.  As the story went, after the lion was left defenseless, the father easily ran him off.  What if you took away Carole’s weapons, or at least her willingness to use them?  Then she’d be helpless.”

Nikki glanced up after she finished packing her belongings.  Sandra's eyes widened; there was something almost sinister about the eager smile on her friend's face.  

Sandra shook her head, exhausted.   _Don’t be ridiculous, it’s_ Nikki _.  Nikki who's been at Brooks since the fifth grade, and still gets lost on the way back to the dorms._  “It’s nothing.  Not even that great of an idea.”  It was growing cool with the setting sun, and Sandra shivered a little.  “I mean, can a robot like Carole even fall in love?”

 Nikki turned back and Sandra was relieved to see that her face had lost its sinister edge, cheerful and full of freckles.   _I must be more exhausted than I thought._  “You’re right, Sandra.  Forget it.”  She stood up, brushing leaves off her skirt, and smiled easily.  “Shall we go in?”


	3. September 25th

On the way towards the library, Miranda heard more than saw a scuffle down the hall from her favorite study room.  Turning the corner, she saw it was a...Patty...Atkinson, a senior.  Miranda briefly thought back to Candace's apt summation of her:   _“Her mother married someone beneath her for_ love.   _Would you believe it?  He never even went to college.”_ She could recall the precise kind of contempt Candace had in her voice; it was the kind she had for those she didn’t take seriously.

Patty was trying to shove a seventh grader into her locker, the smaller girl holding the door open—barely—with a white-knuckled grip, pale-faced and whimpering.  Miranda watched for a moment and figured she should intervene.  Blood made her toes curl.  From her senior friends, Miranda recalled something else:  Patty Atkinson had a habit of bullying people who were smarter than her.  Which was the majority of the fifth graders and anyone older.

“Patty,” Miranda said patiently, “what are you doing?”

When Patty realized who it was, her brown eyes blazed in fury.  “ _You_ !  What are you—why is it any of your business _what_ I do to this pipsqueak?  You and your little friends...looking down on everyone...”  Her rage was making her incoherent.

“Do you _really_ believe everything you hear?” Miranda said lightly, and just gave her a long look, both plucked eyebrows arched until Patty started to twitch.  She added, “Do you have actual evidence or are you just babbling what other people say?”

“Whatever,” the senior was sullen.  Reluctant, Patty explained, “This little pipsqueak was in the cafeteria, and she said that the cashier gave me less change than I deserved.  And I checked and double-checked, and it was exact change!  And she made me look like an idiot in front of everybody saying I couldn't count the change correctly, and they _laughed_.”  Patty tried to slam the locker on the underclassman's hand, but Miranda grabbed it before the crying girl could suffer dislocated fingers in addition to the bruises.  

“What's your name?” asked Miranda, this time directed to the younger girl.

The seventh grader's eyes widened at her would-be savior.  She seemed to recognize Miranda, and gulped in a deferential voice, “I—I'm Jasmine Lee.”  Her eyes were puffy, hard to see.  

“What happened, Jasmine?” Miranda asked kindly.

Jasmine swallowed, wiping away tears.  “I was walking with my friends, and I saw her,” she pointed at Patty, who scowled, “not getting any change at the cashier.  I just wanted to help, I swear!”

“Are you saying I can't count?” snapped Patty.  “I know how much I was supposed to get back!”

“Hold on,” Miranda said.  “What were you buying at the cafeteria?”

“A lox and cream cheese bagel with a carton of milk,” Patty said.

Miranda did the math.  “The bagel would have been three-fifty then, and the milk, fifty cents?  How much did you give her, Patty?”

“Exact change, five dollars.”

Miranda felt the urge to grab the locker door out of Patty's hand and slam it against her _own_ head.  “Um...it's not.  Three-fifty plus fifty cents is only _four_ dollars.”

“What?” Patty's head snapped up.  “Are you telling me that the cashier gypped me?  Why I oughta pound her to—”  The senior stopped in mid-tirade, staring hard at Miranda, and then shifted her gaze towards the cafeteria, torn.

Miranda gave her a confident smile.  “Don't you want your dollar back?” she taunted.  Patty snarled and stormed off.  

Once she was out of earshot, Miranda wryly remarked, “That Patty.  Attention span of a cat.”  Jasmine's knees gave out as she stumbled out of the locker, a tight fit, and sucked in a deep breath.  Miranda grimaced, thankful _she_ couldn’t fit in a locker anymore.  “Hey, get up.  They don't mop that much near the library.”  

She did so quickly, and Miranda winced at the sight of the green and gray plaid dress covered with a thick coat of dust, making it look even worse than usual.  “Thanks,” said Jasmine, breathless.  “You saved me.”

“No problem,” Miranda shrugged, and nearly had a heart attack when the girl grabbed her arm.  

“I've heard of you,” the girl continued in that same breathless tone.  “You're Miranda Etchel, the district attorney's daughter!  They talk about your dad putting away crooks all the time!”  

The red-haired girl carefully pried her arm loose, slightly nauseous.   _Still identified with my father, after all these years._  “Good things, I hope,” she said tonelessly.

“Always,” Jasmine breathed.  “Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome.”  Miranda turned away stiffly.  Jasmine called out a goodbye, and Miranda gave her a half-wave of farewell gingerly.

* * *

 

A little later in the study room, Miranda was hard at work reading and rereading “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” until she could recite it from memory.  She heard the door creak, and careful Mary Janes padded in.  “How’s the poetry analysis coming along?”

Miranda did not even bother to look up from her fractured note-taking, still intent on the poem.  “Not well, Nikki.”

“How'd you know it was me?” was the irritated reply.

“Your gait,” Miranda said.

“Huh?”

“The way you walk,” Miranda said, glancing up.  She was sick of Wordsworth's worshipful love of nature; she never was one for the great outdoors—sunburn, mosquitoes, hail and all.  “I was always much better with literature than this poetry junk.”  With a growl, she pushed aside the book and the paperback snapped shut.  She rubbed at her eyes, exhaling.  With bleary eyes, she looked up into the friendly, freckled face.  “And you?”

“As well as anyone can be.  I was always a lousy student, you know that,” Nikki said, lowering her eyes to the floor.  Then she looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time.  “I don’t know why you always pick _this_ room, Miranda; it’s dusty and the computers are even older than the ones in the lab.  Plus...” she trailed off, her eyes losing focus as she glanced at the sagging shelves.

The seated girl raised a brow.  “Something wrong?”

Nikki laughed awkwardly.  “Never mind that.  Any luck finding a date to the dance?”

“Relax, there’s plenty of time, Nikki.  Seven months?” laughed Miranda.  “Get your mind back on track.”

“Like you aren’t hoping to meet someone special there.”

“Too true,” she replied, hand under her chin.

“Might help your chances if you were a natural redhead...”

Miranda rolled her eyes, shoving the thin book at Nikki.  “And how long have you kept your hair in braids, Pippi Longstocking?”

Face sour, Nikki barely caught it.  She chuckled, but Miranda could tell it was feigned. The two girls fell silent as Nikki's laughter echoed in the large room.  It sent a shiver down Miranda’s spine.

“I was chatting with Sandra the other day,” said Nikki, sitting down across from Miranda, tossing aside a stack of books.

“Oh?” asked Miranda, trying to get her book back.  Nikki snapped twice next to her ear.  “Geez, Nikki, any louder and you'll wake up the zombies in the graveyard that was bulldozed to extend the library.”

“Don't believe in zombies,” said the freckled girl unrepentantly.  “Sandra had an idea of how to ruin Carole.”

Miranda gave her her undivided attention.  “Are you _serious,_ Nikki?  I’m all ears.”  She let her pencil drop to the table.

Nikki was glowing, practically jumping out of her seat.  Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sandra suggested this:  love.”

Miranda snorted.  “As if anyone would want to be around Carole any longer than necessary!  Can you imagine being 'joined at the hip' with _her_?  Hah!”

“Hear me out, Miranda.  Here’s my spin:  she’ll fall in love...with us.”

Miranda backed up so quickly she nearly knocked her chair over.  She grabbed it before it could scratch the hardwood floor, face screwed up in revulsion.  A few seconds passed as she stared.  Her voice wavered as she managed to get the words out.  “ _Gross_!  Have you lost your mind?”

Nikki held up a hand and Miranda fell silent.  “Hold on.  We could be her secret admirers.  Sending her gifts—you know, chocolates and flowers and stuff.”

Miranda slowly put her seat upright, sitting down with a thump.  “You know...” she swallowed.  “That might be crazy enough to _work_.”

As Miranda thought rapidly, Nikki pushed, “Just think of it, we’ll ply her with gifts and candy until she’s so soft she’s unrecognizable.  We’ll build up her hopes, and then she’ll be crushed when she finds out the truth...” Brown eyes gleamed as Nikki tore a sheet of paper from Miranda's notebook, scribbling.  “It's perfect!”

“Hold it,” Miranda interrupted, rapidly assessing.  “While this plan is brilliant and we know what we want to do, just _how_ are we going to do it?”

Nikki stared blankly, pencil stopping.  “I don’t get it.  What are you talking about?”

Miranda rubbed at her eyes.  “You may be my friend—”

“Your very best!”

“—but listen, is delivering a dozen roses every week to her dorm _really_ going to melt Carole to butter?”  At Nikki’s dawning realization, she added, “My point exactly—she’s so heartless she’d just throw them in the dumpster, how expensive they are be damned.  There has to be a way of cutting her to the core.  Look at how skinny she is.  Carole's still thinner than Candace when she's actually keeping her latest diet.”  Nikki snickered.  

Then it hit Miranda and a wicked smile lit up her face.  She stood.  “I’ve got it!”

Nikki stood with her.  “What is it?”  At the delight spreading over Miranda’s fair features, she hopped in excitement like a child.  “Tell me!”

“While Carole’s pretty much good at any kind of academic work,” Miranda looked at her, scowling at acknowledging that her erstwhile rival had _any_ good qualities, “her especial strengths lie in analysis and writing, to which I’ve been on the unfortunate receiving end.”  She barked a cruel laugh, fingers snapping, eyes bright.  “No more.  We’ll beat her at her own game.”

Nikki stared, “What—”

“Letters. The kindest, most endearing love letters she has _ever_ seen,” Miranda’s voice was sickeningly sweet.  “This way, instead of her only being in love, we can find out _all_ about her, whatever secrets she carries, what lies beneath.  We’ll know everything, and expose her to the world.  After gaining her trust, of course.”

Nikki shook her head in admiration.  “Now we’ve got a plan,” she said with barely-contained excitement, “but who’s going to write them?”

Miranda smiled with cold, grim confidence.  “Gather up everyone.”  She shoved her copy of Wordsworth’s poetry into her bag, “We’ve got to put our heads together on _this_ one.”

* * *

 

While Nikki went to call the others through their dorm phones, Miranda headed back to her own dorm, mentally working out smaller details.  While there were still some problems, Miranda thought that with a few more heads, the plan could very well be the thing to unravel Carole Sinclair.  The excitement was intense enough that she felt the temptation to skip.

As she stepped out of the large brick building where most of classes were held for the high school, Miranda spotted Candace talking with one of her contacts.  Keeping her distance, Miranda watched as Candace spoke to the underclassman, catching up on the most recent gossip.  Candace had excellent technique, which reminded Miranda of her own mother sweet-talking people into making triple—sometimes quadruple—digit donations to Brooks.  

Certain formulas worked, and Candace would follow the same routine.  First, greet someone with a warm smile with careful physical contact, never forced and always natural.  Then, loosen their tongues with friendliness and reception, playing the role of sympathetic listener.  Miranda smirked as she watched the underclassman spill probably everything she knew, so at ease in confiding with the biggest gossip in the school.  With another smile, Candace sweetly said that she'd catch up with her later; Miranda wondered how long it would take before the information the blonde had just gathered to become public knowledge.  What made Candace so effective was how few people knew of her role in some of the biggest scandals that ever hit Brooks.

“What was that about?” asked Miranda when the underclassman had left with a bounce in her step.  Candace's shoulders went rigid, but she quickly recovered.

“Reconnaissance,” was the cool reply, and Miranda only grinned.  The redhead was pretty tickled at being able to see this ally of hers present one face to the world while Miranda was clever enough to have figured out her true colors.  They shared a mutually beneficial relationship, but Miranda was fully aware of the power plays that went on at Brooks, and wasn't stupid enough to fall for Candace's ploys of her great empathy.  Try as the blonde had, Miranda had heard enough by word of mouth to consider Candace a highly dubious ally at best.  

After all, Miranda had been fortunate enough to have been taught by the best.

_Better on my side and under my control than anyone else's._ Yet for all her efficacy, Candace was still a liability.  Someone who knew so much about everyone else in the academy was bound to become a double-edged sword.  Miranda had no delusions that Candace would not hesitate to step on her if opportunity knocked.

Miranda knew well enough to keep herself tidy and out of trouble.

Looking up at Candace, she offered, “Nikki's idea does have potential.”

Candace's mouth turned up, her green eyes amused.  “Oh?  Little Nikki coming up with an idea that actually _works_?  News to me.”  Her dimple deepened.  “Even idiots can succeed on occasion.  Whacking the ground at random will eventually strike oil.  Eventually.”  Miranda coughed to cover her snicker.  

“Anyway, _I_ think it's great,” Miranda rolled her eyes.

“You would.  You dragged that hopeless moron in ages ago, and it _still_ hasn’t amounted to much of anything.”

“Well, since _you_ haven't been able to come up with any dirt on Carole Sinclair—”

Candace shrugged.  “I find it strange that Miss Sinclair seems to lack a scandalous past.  Usually if you're anyone worth knowing, you will have accumulated secrets that you'd rather keep to yourself.  Perhaps it's more a remark on her lack of relevance than anything else.”

Miranda shook her head.  Classic Candace:  if she wasn't sure about something, she would feign boredom until it was proven and take all the credit.  If the idea flopped, she would have cut all ties well before anyone knew of her involvement.  “It sounds like fun.  Once we've gained Little Miss Perfect’s trust, well...”  She smiled deviously.  “...there's so much potential there.”

“You're willing to do all this work just to get Carole Sinclair in a compromising situation?” Candace stared at Miranda with a faint, pitying look.  “You're not _that_ upset over a few insults, are you?”

Miranda laughed to cover her initial reaction.  “It's not just for me, Candace.  That girl's probably humiliated everybody at Brooks at one point or another.”  She snorted.  “Including the faculty.”

“How very altruistic of you, Miss Etchel,” Candace looked straight ahead, her eyes on a distant point, and Miranda bared her teeth in something like a smile.  “You do realize that Miss Sinclair will put up a good fight as no one's been able to nail her since she came here?  But I suppose it couldn't hurt to give it a shot.”  She smiled thinly.  “You'd better work out the details.”

“Not a problem, Candace,” Miranda said confidently.  “Better than sitting around and not doing anything about a public menace,” she added pointedly.

The blonde shrugged.  “We shall see.”

“You’re just hedging since Nikki of all people beat you to the punch,” Miranda laughed, and left Candace by the lake.


	4. September 26th

The girls gathered into the study room, located just down the hall from the library.  The same one that Miranda and Nikki had occupied yesterday, rather dusty, Sandra noticed with a wrinkled nose.  She couldn’t believe her roommate sat in here all the time without sneezing her head off.

While Ivy and Desiree seemed excited at the prospect of taking down another bully at Brooks, especially one as notorious as Carole Sinclair, Candace stood with her arms crossed, looking bored, and Nikki...well, Nikki looked like she was about to bounce out of her seat in excitement.

“We really should be doing homework,” piped up Sandra, noting the study room seemed to double as a storage room.  “Because I don't know about the rest of you, but I've got two essays and a lab to write, as well as finishing a pre-calc problem set.”

Ivy huffed.  “But this is the perfect chance to humiliate Little Miss Perfect!”  She plopped down in a chair, sending up little dust plumes, and Desiree coughed.  “Sorry, Desiree.  But I heard this was _your_ idea, Sandra.”  

Sandra also coughed, pushing up her glasses with a single finger, averting her gaze from Ivy's inquiring eyes.  “Wasn’t my idea completely,” she muttered.  “Miranda and Nikki hammered out the details.”

Nikki giggled, “Don’t sell yourself short, Sandra.  We couldn’t have done it without your inspiration.”

“That’s what I was afraid of...” Sandra trailed off.

Candace stood up fully, tilting her head at the pensive Sandra.  “What do you mean?”

It was then that Miranda entered the stifling room, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail.  She took her place at the head of the table.  “All right, peanut gallery, quiet down.”  With that, the decibel level of the room faded.  “Everyone know why we’re here?”

“To see a certain egotistical blonde get hers,” grinned Nikki, pumping her fist.  Miranda gave her a look, and she straightened, huffing.  

To the rest of the table, Miranda asked, “Everyone got the plan?”

“Woo the girl with charming letters,” began Ivy.

“Coax out her secrets,” added Desiree.

“And when she’s in our power—” Miranda said, her lips curving.  

“We...move in for the kill?” finished Sandra.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Miranda, and the room dissolved into laughter.

“Can’t wait to see the expression on her face when she realizes she’s been had!” crowed Desiree.  

Sandra watched as they chattered on.  “I know.  Have you ever seen that girl’s face?  It’s like a brick wall.”  Ivy shuddered.

“Those eyes of hers creep me out,” Desiree said.  “She looks like she's dead or a zombie.”

Ivy added, laughing, “I don't think zombies are _that_ spiteful.”

“I’ve _always_ wanted to make that spoiled brat cry,” Nikki jumped in.  “If the snake even has tear ducts.”

Miranda picked up volume eighteen of the _Oxford English Dictionary_ and dropped it in the middle of the discussion.  The clouds of dust caused the girls to cough and succeeded in getting their attention.  “Hey, guys, I know you’re excited as I am about this, but we have to actually do some _work_ first,” Miranda said.  “We have to concoct an enchanting love letter to appeal to Miss Sinclair's standards.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Candace replied, her eyes lidded.  “Who’s going to write it, though?”

Miranda grinned, leaning back against a shelf.  “All of us.”

Dead silence.  Ivy cautiously raised her hand as if she was in class.  Miranda pointed at her.  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, “We'd have to get together every time Carole writes back.”

“I'm just trying to cover our tracks properly,” Miranda replied.  “And it compensates for all our weaknesses.  Sandra’s the most proficient writer; Nikki’s great with rote stuff like proofreading; Ivy loves those soupy romance novels—” at this, the girl hid her face and began to giggle, “You know it’s true, Ivy.  But what the rest of us lack, one of us can cover.”

Sandra cleared her throat, and Miranda looked at her.  “ _I’m_ the best writer?” she said.  “Sounds like I’ll be doing most of the work.”

“Don’t worry.  We’ll help you, Sandra.”

“Miranda, I’m pretty busy with homework, not to mention running errands for student council and the newspaper.”  She sighed.  “I don’t know if I have _time_ to be scribbling passionate love letters to someone I can’t stand to be in the same room with.  It sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.”

Nikki stood so suddenly her pigtails bounced.  “Sandra,” she wheedled, “you can’t tell me it didn’t sting when the ice princess gave you a copy of your editorial on teaching standards at Brooks, the one you were so proud of, with all your grammatical and punctuation errors marked.”

Sandra’s ears turned red.  “But—” she protested.

“She was a total jerk about it too.  Remember some of the comments?  ‘Sandra, I suspect you did not listen to your teachers when you were in grade school.  Did you not learn that you _don't_ use ampersands in formal writing?  If you had been at Madison Junior High, you would have been clubbed to death by angry teachers.’”

“Nikki...”

Nikki’s voice only took on a sing-song quality.  “Or in algebra when Carole made a fool of you by pointing out that you were so nervous that you did the entire formula in reverse?  'That takes _some_ talent,' Carole said, and she got your favorite teacher to laugh at you.  And then there was the time that she walked out of your speech for the Creative Writing Club out of protest of what she called your plagi—”

Sandra snapped, “All right, I’ll do it!  Just don’t expect me to enjoy this as much as you, Nikki!”

Miranda put a hand on her shoulder.  “Argument ends, please.  Could we return to the topic?”  Nikki sniffed, satisfied, and Sandra sat back down with fists clenched.  Miranda mentally noted to take her aside later.

“Let’s iron this out.  We’re going to type the letters so Carole won’t be able to recognize anyone’s handwriting.  Got it?”  The girls nodded.

“What about delivery?” Nikki asked.

“I know where her dorm is,” volunteered Candace, interested for the first time.  “And don’t you have lunch when she’s in AP physics?”

Miranda snapped her fingers.  “That’s perfect!”  She started to pace in her heels on the wool rug.  “I can make my way there after AP English, and—”

Sandra said, “We should decide what to write.”

“Let’s get to it,” cried out Nikki.

* * *

 

It was as Miranda predicted; each of her friends had their own contributions to make to the letter.  What she left out, as noted earlier, was that despite being the main architect of the project, Miranda was terrible at writing and had nothing to contribute.  

Especially constructing something as finicky as a love letter.

On one of the lab computers, Sandra typed and worded much of the document, Ivy and Desiree would throw in particularly catching phrases they had picked up from here and there.  Though there was spell-check on the computer, Nikki’s quick eye caught some phrasings that were over the top as well as other amateurish blunders.  Candace would also throw in some potpourri from poetry she had seen.

Twenty minutes later, when they had finished writing, Miranda read it over, and this is what she was presented with:

 

> My beloved,
> 
> You have captured my heart like no one else has ever done before.  My sweet, such luscious lips you have, your sweeping locks of sun-kissed hair!  I long to touch it, those silken strands.  Those striking gray eyes, more precious to me than my very life!
> 
> Carole, I wish to hold your trembling body in my warm embrace.  But for now, I will be content to soak in the vision of your beauty from afar.  Tell me your secret, do you smell as good as you look?  It’s beyond me how anyone could have failed to have noticed you yet.
> 
> Your brilliant presence is enough to enrapture an entire room, the entire school.  Could it be that you’ve enraptured my heart as well?  I could not have picked someone worthier.  I adore you, I want to see you again.
> 
> Someday, I would be honored to take you to the dance at the end of the year, but I shall eagerly await your reply, my sweet.  Please leave it in your mailbox, and I will retrieve it post haste.
> 
>  
> 
> With adoration,
> 
> Your secret admirer

 

Miranda felt a shudder run down her spine, and try as she did to stifle her reaction, she started laughing until she cried.

“Hey!” cried Ivy.

“We put a lot of work into that,” muttered Desiree.

Trying to get her giggling under control, Miranda said placatingly, “Relax, guys.  It’s just—just—” she broke into a fresh round of giggles.

Hands on her hips, Candace said, “I’d like to see _you_ do better.”

Miranda tried to regain equilibrium, but her lips were still twitching.  “I apologize.  I’ll deliver it.  I’ll deliver it.”  She grabbed the letter, spritzed it once with cologne (helpfully supplied by Ivy) and tucked the flap into the envelope.  “Shall we call it a day?”

* * *

Tucking in her robe, Miranda left the bathroom and headed back to her dorm.  Careful not to let her wet hair drip on it, she picked up the letter.  As Sandra was on her bed, reading _Lord of the Flies_ in silence, she did not even snicker, though she shook a little at the phrase, ‘sun-soaked hair.’  Carole's hair was more a pale wheat color, but who was she to quibble over details?

It was her roommate who broke the silence.  “Are you _sure_ about this?” Sandra asked.

Tucking the letter back into the envelope, Miranda turned over to her,  her roommate shivering at the chill in their dorm.  “Why do you have a problem with taking Carole down a few notches?  You're not exactly her greatest fan.”  At the other girl’s grimace, she added, “Speak up now or forever hold your peace.”

Sandra put down her book, her dark eyes enlarged behind her thick glasses.  “Are you..do you feel bad that we’re doing something this...mean...to Carole?”

The immediate and exacting response was, “Not at all.”

The other girl chewed her lip, pushing her page boy haircut back.  “’Not at all’?  But why?”

Miranda sighed, putting the envelope down.  “Shall I recite the reasons over again?  She gets me in trouble with Clellan practically every Monday, she insults my friends and every person she comes across in her pathetic life.  My grade in English is in the pits because of her, she’s a spoiled brat who’s treated outlandishly special because of her supposed brilliance, Carr actually taking her on as some kind of pet project.  She’s a general pain in the butt.  The only question is:  why not?”

Sandra groaned, slapping her head against her forehead.  “Geez, Miranda.  Listen to yourself!  This is just—you and Nikki, I swear Nikki almost wet herself with excitement today, she was so into this!  It’s so petty of you—”

Miranda whirled around.  “Excuse me?  After everything this girl put me through, it’s only fair that I get a little payback!”  She took a deep breath, adding, “Besides, you still participated _quite_ willingly in today’s little meeting!”

Sandra snarled, “I hate Carole and everything about her, but _I_ wouldn't put so much time into getting her back.  What are you, ten, Miranda?  Do you _always_ have to get back at someone?”

“Nothing wrong with wanting the playing field level,” she snapped.  “And...” Miranda waved the envelope under Sandra's nose, “how very curious that _you_ claim you don’t want to do it, and yet you're the main author of this letter...”

“That girl hasn’t exactly been nice to me either!”

“Then what’s your problem!” screeched Miranda.

Sandra’s shoulders sagged and she let out a sigh.  “I just have a bad feeling about this.”

Miranda stared in disbelief.  “That’s it?  A stupid feeling?”

“Did you completely miss the fact that this is totally a vicious thing to do to someone?” she snapped.

“Whatever.  Your words contradict your actions.”

Sandra fell silent, unable to respond.  Miranda blew her soggy bangs out of her eyes.  “I’m going out for a walk.  I’m going to forget this conversation happened.” Miranda ordered, lips thin.  “Got it?”

Sandra flipped open her book, and tried to concentrate on her reading.  Yet Miranda knew she wasn't paying attention from the way her eyes weren't moving over the page.  Shrugging, Miranda walked out of the dorm, clad only in her pajamas and bathrobe.

Miranda went to the lounge area on the first floor of her dorm building, smiling pleasantly at three fellow juniors, who were fixing instant noodles on the stove top.  It was obvious they had never used a stove before.  It reminded her of her mother's attempts at cooking, which even formidable Gertrude was unable to curtail.  She spared a thought for her father, who was probably at the office still.  He rarely came home.

The cooking reminded her that she hadn't eaten since dinner, so she wandered over to the refrigerator.  Opening the door, she shivered a little at the cool air, and saw yogurt.  “Whose yogurt?”

One of the juniors, ripping a seasoning packet, looked up.  She and her other friends were also in their pajamas.  “Oh...that might be Jill's.”  The girl, blonde highlights mussed, looked up.  

“Oh...” she shyly ducked her head.  “You can have some, Miranda.”

“Thanks,” Miranda said.  She broke off a yogurt cup, and went to sit on the couch.  Sandra usually had moral qualms about things that she and their friends did sometimes, but she was also pretty easy to shut up.  Most of their victims were people who were making life difficult at Brooks for the other students, and Carole was at the top of the list. _It was only a matter of time_ , Miranda thought, _that we would have tried to take down Carole Sinclair, Headmistress Carr's pet herself_.  She found Sandra's attack of conscience odd, because her roommate didn't get along with Carole at all.  

Then again, that was a relative term.  Carole didn't get along with anyone.


	5.  October 4th

Sprawled on her bed, Ivy sketched out a scene of a woman caressing a man's cheek in a field of flowers.  Her brown hair was pinned up with glow-in-the-dark, neon green clips.  Desiree was properly horrified about how Ivy's clips clashed with the school uniform, but she could never dissuade Ivy from wearing something she liked, no matter how atrocious they were.

After putting her own hair up in a stylishly messy bun, Desiree spoke up.  “Any word yet?'

“Hmm?” Ivy said, pencil poised with indecision.

Her best friend chuckled, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and watched Ivy's pencil tap against the page.  “I mean, has Miss Sinclair responded to our overtures yet?”

Ivy glanced up. “Nah, not yet.  Do you think Sinclair will reply?”  

“No idea,” Desiree shrugged.  “I've never been able to tell where the headmistress's pet leaps.  She's a strange one.”

Ivy giggled.  “If she's even human.”

“Yeah, that's questionable,” laughed Desiree.  

Ivy stared off to one side.  "Carole's one thing.  But do you remember when Candace had us hide Lisa's underwear during gym last spring?  She was  _ crying. _ "

Desiree ducked her head.  "It was just a harmless prank, Ivy.  And it  _ is _ Carole _ , _ this time around." 

An uncomfortable silence.  “What's Latoya been up to?” Ivy asked with forced cheer, starting to sketch roses on the edge of the paper.

“Great!” Desiree’s mood perked up.  “She met this awesome fencer at Somers.  They hit it off, and she wants me to meet him.”

“What's his name?”  
“Michael, Michael Farthing,” she chattered.  “Says he's super-hot and really polite.  They connected _instantly_.  She thinks he's the one.”

Ivy's tone grew sly.  “Like the last two guys your sister's gone out with?  She’s going to run out of eligible seniors.”

Desiree smacked her side lightly with a pillow.  

* * *

A week later, Miranda and Sandra were still on delicate footing with each other—well, mostly, Miranda hadn't forgiven Sandra yet.  Sandra didn't like to pick fights.  By this time, the first frost had come, and many leaves had fallen off the trees.  The brilliant colors of autumn were on full display, beginning to recede into dull brown.

Miranda first thought that Carole either deliberately ignored the first letter, or perhaps it had gotten lost.  She and Nikki considered sending another, but when Sandra had gone to check Carole’s mailbox, lo and behold, an unaddressed envelope had been left inside.

Miranda took it to their Friday study session.  Sandra opened it first, a handwritten letter in elegant script on plain stationery, and read it aloud:

 

> Dear unknown admirer,
> 
> While I congratulate you on your bravery at sending an anonymous missive to me, I will keep this mercifully short, as I do not intend to bore you with the specifics of your woefully-cobbled together excuse for a letter.
> 
> Please do not attempt to send me another atrocity like that, filled with phrases that would have the great poets rolling in their graves at your plagiarized ploys of charming me.  There are literally hundreds of empty-headed little girls at this school, eager for your masculine attentions.  An insecure girl at the school paper would be delighted beyond words if you sent something like this her way.  She has huge glasses, you can't miss her.
> 
> On the other hand, I remain unimpressed.
> 
>  
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Carole
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. - I could not resist taking the liberty of correcting your typo-ridden letter of all its mistakes.  Perhaps you could learn something from my example.  I am not entirely convinced that you  _ can  _ be taught and I could be completely wasting my time, but alas, the grammarian in me cringes at travesties like your letter.
> 
>  

Behind the neatly-written letter was their typed letter, covered with red ink corrections.  Miranda’s eyes widened as stared, gazing at the numerous suggestions.  In fact, the corrections covered more of the paper than the original contents of the letter.  “Well,” she breathed.  “She's nothing if not meticulous.”

Sandra crumpled the letter, tossing it into a corner.  “That’s it, I’m  _ done _ .”  With that, she stomped out of the study room.

Miranda ordered Nikki, “Go see if she’s okay.”  Nikki nodded and tore after her.  She looked at the remaining three, lips pursed.  Judging from their faces, they didn't look up to answering Carole's challenge.  Miranda eyed the balled-up letter.  “Anyone?”

Desiree shook her head.  “I put my all into that letter.  Evidently it wasn’t good enough to awe the girl genius.”

Miranda slammed a fist into her hand, muttering, “Maybe we just need to chip at her defenses, a little at a—”

Ivy moaned, her face in her hands, “Give it up, Miranda.  Good plan in theory, bad in practice.”

Miranda slumped, flopping down in a chair, growling.  “And it was such a great idea too...”  She glared at the remaining three.  “Maybe if it wasn’t such a soupy letter, we could have gotten somewhere.”

With that remark, Candace lost her look of boredom, and tossed her blonde hair. “Sandra’s right.  If you want this done, you’ll have to do it yourself.”  A little smartly, “For once.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed.  “I'll keep that in mind the next time you ask for help with pre-calc.”

Candace was about to retort when Ivy spoke up.  “Relax. It’s not the first time Carole's annoyed us.  We’re just giving her what she wants.”  With that, the tension slowly seeped out of the room.

A couple of minutes later, Nikki came back with Sandra in tow, who was taking deep breaths.  Her eyes were a little red behind her glasses.

“All right there?” asked Miranda.

Sandra waved off her concern.  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Nikki gave them a cheeky grin.  “Got it under control.  Miranda, why don’t we try something else?”

“Forget about it, Nikki,” Miranda said.  “We’re not going to bother.  We’re resigning ourselves to the fact that the girl genius is too frigid to ever warm to our affections.”

“What!”  Nikki jumped up, slamming her hands on the table.  “You can't just give up so easily!”

“Nikki, leave it,” interjected Candace.

“Yeah,” Desiree said, and there were other nods of agreement. 

“Oh—” Nikki threw up her hands.  “Whatever.”  This time, it was Nikki who stomped out of the study room, her freckled nose crinkling.

An uneasy silence.  “What’s her problem?” asked Miranda.

Ivy sighed.  “You can't have failed to notice how into this Nikki was.”

Miranda was mystified, and given the blank stares exchanged amongst the others, they were as well.  “What’s Carole ever done to  _ her _ ?” Desiree asked Sandra.

“Beats me,” was the reply.  

Candace's eyes hovered over where Nikki had been standing, and Miranda shrugged.  “Never mind.  Don’t we have a test to study for?”

“Yeah,” Sandra seemed all too eager to change the subject.  

Ivy asked Candace, “Could I borrow some of your graphing paper?”

The blonde snapped back to the present.  “Sure.”

While the others went back to studying, Miranda eyed the crumpled ball.  Not letting anyone see, she memorized the location, and kicked it by her book bag. 

“Miranda?” questioned Sandra, her finger poised over a graphing calculator.  “What are you—”

The girl straightened after she dropped the ball in her bag, smoothing her half-ponytail.  “It’s nothing, thought my shoe was untied.  Do you have the coordinates for problem seven?”

“Sure,” Sandra responded.  The girls went back to studying.

* * *

Miranda uncrumpled the letter when she was away from her friends, finally alone in her dorm.  Sandra was out typing an article for the newspaper, and she stood in front of her desk, her red hair loose over her green uniform sweater.  The nights in October had dropped significantly in temperature, and Miranda rubbed her chilled hands over the heater.

Next to the two letters clipped together was the rough draft of an essay that was due soon in AP English.  A correction that Carole had made on the co-written letter they had made—or rather, her friends had written—caught her eye.  Smoothing the paper—Sandra had really been upset, but fortunately, the font was large enough to distinguish, and the red ink bright enough not to fade—she could see the errors of the old letter clearly.

A little too clearly, at that.  Miranda had made one of those errors consistently throughout her AP English essay.  Taking her own red pen, her eyebrow arched in curiosity.  Some spelling errors, formatting improvements... she started to wonder what else could be fixed.

Sandra walked in, and Miranda grabbed Carole's corrections, shuffling the papers so they were no longer visible.  Fortunately, Sandra was too busy carrying a stack of newspapers to notice.  

“What's this?” asked Miranda, looking down at an article that was announcing the yearly Christmas talent show.  “It's not even Halloween yet.”

Sandra looked up, surprised.  “Oh, the talent show.  When have you cared about that?  You always said it was boring.”

“Well, it  _ was _ .” Miranda said, shrugging, putting the newspaper aside.  “Is.  Everyone prefers the dance at the end of year over watching some hack screech on the fiddle or 'sing' off-key.”

The other girl giggled.  “This is true.  However, I heard that it's going to be improved this year.”

“They say that  _ every  _ year,” Miranda rolled her eyes.  

Sandra shot back, “You never attend anyway, so what does it matter to you?”  Miranda shrugged, knowing she had lost that argument.  She fell silent, and went back to reading over her AP history paper, careful not to reveal the crumpled letters.


	6. October 8th

Jacqueline Clellan sat in the foyer of the headmistress' office, waiting on tenterhooks.  

Headmistress Carr had called her down while they were in the faculty lounge.  She had been chatting with her fellow colleagues in the dimly-lit room, griping about her AP English junior class, mostly about that incorrigible girl Carole.  (Clellan had taken the secretary's comments to heart, and simply avoided talking about Miranda, period.)  

Unbeknownst to Miss Clellan, Headmistress Carr had been sitting in a corner, quietly enjoying a cup of tea while Clellan fulminated on her troubles.  The older woman had set the delicate cup down and looked at her without expression.  Then, with a crooked finger, she suggested, “Miss Clellan, why don't we discuss how your classes have been going?”  Miss Clellan started and barely managed a nod.  With that, the headmistress walked out, leaving only the sound of clinking china in her wake.

Mr. Salvador had been there, as well as some of the faculty that taught at the elementary school.  The portly man said, “Uh-oh.  Maybe you shouldn't have complained at all.”

Alarmed, Miss Clellan said, “Am I in trouble?”

“Maybe...” said Mrs. Green from the doorway.  “Grace doesn't like it when she hears that her special project is having issues.”

She lurched out of the swivel chair she was in.  “You can't mean that the rumors were  _ true _ .”

“Maybe,” Mrs. Green said.  “I don't know which one you mean.  Brooks has its own sizable rumor mill.”

“Great,” groaned Miss Clellan.  Annoying as gossip was, it still held for her a fatal fascination.  “I'm talking about the story about Carole Sinclair being Grace Carr's personal protege, and the position coming with a ton of privileges.”

Mrs. Green calmly sipped her coffee, and looked at Jackie with a straight face.  “Oh no, that's not a rumor.”  Before the new teacher could even so much as sigh in relief, she continued.  “That's plain fact.”

Then Grace Carr called her into her office.

Miss Clellan faced the solid hardwood desk, noting the plush carpeting.  “You wished to see me, Headmistress?” she asked, taking a seat.  

“Ah, yes, Miss Clellan,” said the headmistress.  Her graying was hair cut short above the ears and she waved a wizened hand.  “Would you like some rooibos?  And please.  None of this 'Headmistress Carr' business.  Just call me Grace in here.”

“Then I can answer to Jackie,” Clellan replied, loosening up.  “What did you want to talk to me about?”  She waved away the teacup, not a fan of the beverage.  

“To business, hm?” Grace Carr smiled.  “I do like that in a person.”  Clearing her throat, she asked, “How are you acclimating to Brooks, Jackie?”

“Just fine,” Miss Clellan said.  Yes, she was acclimating, but the students here, unlike the ones she taught in public school during her student teaching days, were noticeably more privileged, and it was difficult to make the transition between a 'regular' kid and these sheltered orchids in a greenhouse.  The teacher had not been from one of the upper crust families that Brook catered to, and it had been like a plunge into the nearby freezing lake to get adjusted.  Miss Clellan relented at Grace Carr's steady gaze, adding, “Though the learning curve is steep.”

“Isn't that the truth?” laughed Mrs. Carr, setting down the tea.  “If you were having problems with one of your classes, why didn't you just come talk to me?”

Miss Clellan winced inwardly.  “I didn’t realize you—”

“Of course,” Grace Carr said, waving off Miss Clellan's attempts at smoothing over the situation.  “It was difficult to ignore.”

_ Well _ , thought Miss Clellan.  _  This is not an ideal way to start a semester at a new school.   _ “Er—”

Grace Carr shook off her protests.  “I'm acquainted with both Misses Sinclair and Etchel.”  A rueful smile a sip from her cup.  “I suppose something like this was going to happen at one point or another.  If not with Miranda, then someone else.”  Jackie tried interrupting again, but Grace pushed forward, “As fond as I am of Carole, she really needs to learn some tact.  As for Miss Etchel, she's the spitting image of her mother—she's used to having things happen the way she wants.”

Numbly, Jackie said, “I didn't know you understood the situation so well.”

“Maybe I am old-fashioned,” Grace continued, “but when two students don't get along at other schools, they're usually separated from one another.  That never made sense to me.  In life, you're going to meet people you don't get along with, and you may be forced to work together.  Whether they dislike each other or not, Carole and Miranda need to sort out whatever the bone of contention is between them like mature and responsible adults.”

Jackie frowned.  “That's very idealistic of you, Grace.  But it's not fair to everyone else for them to keep disrupting the class.”  

Grace bowed her head, looking at her employee from above her wire-rim spectacles.  “If it gets to that point, send one or both of them out.  And have them report directly to me.”  

“Will that work?” asked Jackie.  But before Grace could say more, there was a polite knock on the door, and Miss Clellan was startled to see when it was none other than Carole Sinclair, hand resting somewhat awkwardly on the handle.  Grace raised her hand and motioned for her to come in, and Carole did so almost silently, standing by her desk.  “I'm sure you're well-acquainted with Carole here.  She's mentioned you once or twice in our talks,” said the headmistress, and Carole gave a nod.

“I'm sure there was much to take about,” Miss Clellan said before she could stop herself.

Grace only smiled enigmatically.  “Oh no, she's actually had less complaints for you than the majority of the teachers here.”  Miss Clellan was dumbfounded.  “That's really an accomplishment for someone new.”  Jackie mentally debated whether to have a heart attack or burst into laughter as the world slowly spun off its axis.  

Carole nodded, her gaze steady on her English teacher, and Miss Clellan hid her swallow.  “I have a proposal for you.”

When Carole's face showed a faint smile, Jacqueline Clellan nearly  _ did  _ have a heart attack.

* * *

On the campus grounds, a small lake dubbed Lake Astaire, probably by a teacher back in the 1930’s at Brooks Academy, was a peaceful area surrounded by wooded groves.  Tucked in one cove, was a gazebo.  It was often drenched with sunlight during the day, and the rickety wood was in dire need of a paint job.  Miranda did not mind the shabbiness; this was her favorite place to be alone as it was nearly deserted.

Though she and Sandra were getting along better after Carole’s response earlier that week, there were still some things she’d rather not be caught doing in her dorm by her roommate, let alone by the others.  

Such as writing a love letter to the infamous Carole Sinclair who resided in room 76.

Miranda decided Candace’s suggestion wasn’t completely useless.  Though her friends could be trusted to delegate certain tasks, other things she should be able to do herself.

Besides, she was itching to prove herself, especially after Candace's implication that she would never be able to beat Carole at her own game.  And wouldn’t her friends (not to mention the rest of Brooks) be forever grateful to Miranda for putting Miss Sinclair in her place?

Huffing under her breath, she reviewed the two letters of the correspondence, and considered.

“My beloved Carole...” she began her letter.  There, not too over the top this time. Miranda was sure that she could produce something superior.

“I admit to being shy, and that is why I can’t reveal my identity as of yet.  Also, isn’t there a certain spice to anonymity?”  Perfect excuse not to reveal herself.

“I really am interested in pursuing you,”   An appeal to that bloated ego, “and want to know why you found my letter so objectionable.”  Miranda had an inkling of just how gloppy the letter was, but it would be interesting to see what  _ Carole _ found fault with.  Aside from the ones Carole already pointed out.  

Miranda blinked.   _ Well, this is a first. _  The first time she really cared about Carole’s opinion.   _ C’est la vie _ .

“What can I do to convince you that I’m actually serious about you?” Miranda snorted to herself.  Yes, it would be a good ploy to find out just what it would take.  “I really care for you—” a strangled gag here, “and want to get to know you better.  Will you let me?”

Now that she was the sole person, Miranda admitted, it  _ was  _ easier to plot.  She snuck into an empty computer lab during one of her study halls, typing the letter.  Ivy had given her a whole sample bottle of cologne, which she spritzed on the paper, and delivered to Carole’s mailbox by the blonde’s dorm.

Miranda paused in the noiseless hallway, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.   _ Of course it’s quiet; the brat gets the entire first floor to herself _ , she told herself.  Snorting at herself for being unnerved, she headed back to more populated areas of the school.

* * *

“How’s it’s going?”

Miranda looked up from where she was sorting her colors from her whites.  A hand snatched an article of clothing from her, holding it up.  “This is a little...daring for a schoolgirl, isn't it?”

It was a pale blue lacy bra of very fine quality, probably at least three figures--monetarily, anyway.  Miranda blushed and snatched the offending garment out of Nikki’s outstretched hand.  “What business is it of  _ yours _ what I choose to wear?  Not like you get to see me in my underwear on a regular bas—”

Nikki grinned as she made herself at home in a rusted folding chair, next to an equally dilapidated dryer.  “None at all, actually.  I do happen to know that there’s a certain end of year dance coming up shortly.  Trying to impress the menfolk?”  

Miranda snorted as she shook out a green sweater from one of the washers, ignoring the latter comment.  “If you consider seven months, ‘shortly.’”

“Oh, I do, I do,” the other girl replied, picking lint from her jeans.  “You must always be prepared for eventualities.”

Miranda shook her head as she started the dryer.  “’Eventualities’?  Nice one, Nikki.  I can guess you’ve been studying up your SAT words.”

“Hey, hey,  _ hey _ ,” said the embarrassed girl, “I can sound just as much like a witty debutante like you or Sandra.”

“It sounds fake coming out of you.”

Nikki huffed, “Aren’t best friends supposed to be supportive or something?”

“Now, now,” Miranda said, “don’t get upset because I’m calling you out for acting out-of-character.”

“Are you saying it’s out-of-character of me to act smart?”

“Well,  _ yes _ .”

Nikki hmphed, crossing her arms.  “I am deeply, deeply wounded.”

“Don’t be,” Miranda laughed, “I mess with you like I do with everyone else in our circle of friends.”

Nikki sighed, her lower lip sticking out slightly.  “More like your circle of underlings,” she said quietly.

Miranda was momentarily distracted by bare branches scraping against the window screen.  “What was that?  Couldn’t hear you.”  It was cold today, and windy besides.

“N—nothing.”

She gazed at Nikki, who had fallen silent, almost pensive.  “You’re really looking forward to that dance?”

Nikki started.  “Yeah, of course!”  She stood up, walking over to the same window, looking out.  “I was just thinking of the guys at Somers School.”  Looking wistful, she added, “It stinks that our schools don't cooperate on more things besides that dance.  And some of them are delectable.”  This last was said dreamily.

Miranda smiled.  “What, already crushing on someone at Somers?  Have you even gotten to know anyone over there, or are we just talking about someone's face?”  

“There's nothing wrong with wanting someone because they look good,” Nikki pointed out.

Miranda retorted, “Never said there was.”  After a moment, she added, “I’d get bored if they can't keep up with me.”

“Not everybody's clever, Miranda,” Nikki pouted.  “I’d just be glad to grab whoever's available.”

Miranda looked at her, taken aback.  While she was often teased by her friends about never dating anyone before, she was curious as anyone about crushes and having a significant other.  But she didn’t  _ need  _ a boyfriend any more than she needed an extra hip, and found Nikki's desperation repulsive.  “I suppose,” she said noncommittally.

Nikki went on.  “It's not like I'm looking for true love, if it even exists.  I just want a boyfriend that adores me and makes me feel good about myself.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and luckily, Nikki wasn't looking at her.  She said wryly, “Like some kind of mindless boy toy who sings your praises because you can’t do it yourself?”  The redhead couldn’t keep the derision off her face.  “Sounds like fun.”  

Not until then Nikki noticed her changed tone, and turned to stare, her eyes widening.  “Well, you know, I don't have complicated needs,” she trailed off.

Miranda noticed that the dryer had stopped.  Turning, she opened the machine, and started hauling warm clothing out into the brisk air of the room.  It felt good.  She hadn’t realized how cold she was until now.  She thought about saying something about how relationships went both ways, but wasn't sure if Nikki would know what she was talking about—or would care.  “No big deal.”   

Nikki walked over to her and asked, “Something wrong?”  Teasingly, she said, “Is there a special someone you've got in mind?”

“Well...” Miranda mused.  She wasn't as boy-crazy as Ivy or Desiree, but had had her share of crushes.  Not anyone from the local public high school, Madison High; all of them were immature and a lot of them trashy or on drugs.  The only interesting specimens were from Somers School for Boys, who on occasion had caught her eye, but they usually got taken within days.  Frankly, she had not felt deeply enough about a boy to stir up the controversy.  

Miranda shrugged and gave her a bland smile.  “It’s nothing.  Got any plans for the weekend?”

A little disconcerted at the topic swerve, Nikki answered, “Uh, sure.  Sandra and Candace and I were thinking of heading to Uncle John’s tomorrow evening for ice cream.  Love their homemade peach flavor.”

_ Candace inviting  _ Nikki _ somewhere?  What is she up to?   _ Miranda feigned a chuckle.  “A little cold for ice cream.  It’s October!”

“All the more reason to enjoy ourselves while it lasts.  This is the last weekend the place is open.”  Nikki was grinning.  “We'd  _ love  _ for you to come!”

“All right, I’ll go.  I just have to finish my Civil War paper tonight,” Miranda stared at her sack of laundry, suddenly tired.  Nikki said her goodbyes and the sound of Mary Janes faded away in the echoing basement.   _ Candace and her plotting will be the death of me _ echoed in her thoughts more than once.  Miranda began to fold a sweater, and wondered when it would start to snow this year.  It was  _ cold  _ in here.  


	7. October 10th

Four girls entered the bustling ice cream parlor, the place already filled other students from Brooks, chattering in delight.  The foyer was brightly lit with fluorescent lights, the checkerboard tiles and pistachio green walls gleaming, completing the retro look.  The 1950s-styled jukebox was blaring the original Elvis rendition of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

Miranda got a few hellos from the fellow students, while Candace watched her with narrowed eyes.  The four were given a red vinyl booth near the cash register, the upholstery sparkling under the glare of the light.

The waiter, about their age, came over and flipped open his notepad.  “What can I get you girls tonight?”

Nikki put in, “I’ll have a banana split!”

Candace gave her a sidelong glance, murmuring, “And here I thought you wanted something homemade.”

“The vanilla ice cream’s homemade...”

Shaking her head, Candace said, “Can I have a Super Sundae, please?”

“Sure,” said the waiter, “and you two?”  He gestured to Sandra and Miranda.

Pushing up her glasses, Sandra said, “I’ll have the malted milkshake with peppermint ice cream.”

“And you, miss?”

Miranda said, “I’ll just have two scoops of your coffee ice cream.”

“Sure, I’ll be right back with your orders.”  

When she saw that the boy was out of earshot, Miranda stage-whispered, “That guy’s acne was horrible to the point of distraction.”

Nikki started giggling, Sandra rolled her eyes, and between chuckles, Candace said, “You’re so mean, Miranda.  Any wonder people are intimidated by you?”

“Not my fault that everybody’s so insecure,” Miranda sniffed.  “I'm proud of who I am, and weren't we talking about  _ him _ ?” The blonde followed suit, grabbing a few napkins for herself.  “That pimple parade was like a trainwreck; you could  _ not _ look away.”  Out of curiosity, Miranda asked, “Ever see him before, Candace?  His face is rather...distinctive.”  Nikki hid a snort.

Candace grinned and dished, “Oh, he’s just a nobody going to Madison.”  She shot Miranda a sly glance.  “Are you thinking of snagging him for yourself?”

The girl snorted, “Nah, I thought he might be a good match for  _ you _ , dear friend.”

Before Candace could reply, Sandra cut in with not a little exasperation, “How’s the Wordsworth project coming?”

Miranda groaned, “I don’t want to  _ think _ about homework tonight, Sandra.  Especially some stupid extra credit project I shouldn’t even  _ have _ to do.”  She looked over to the counter, watching the acne-afflicted boy fill up a tall glass with ice cream.  “I do know it’s your favorite topic and all, but there’s more to life than school.”

“I know, I know,” Sandra grumbled.  

Candace looked out the window, her green eyes widening.  

“What is it?”  Miranda asked.

The girl shook her head, curls bouncing, mouthing, “Carole.”

The table lapsed into silence as the tall blonde entered Uncle John’s.  The boy came back with their ordered items, and gave Miranda a lingering glance, but they paid him no heed.

Carole went up to the front counter, saying, “May I have a scoop of your raspberry frozen yogurt, please?”

Miranda rolled her eyes.  Even her speech had to be grammatically correct.  

She was about to voice this when two girls approached Carole from behind.  Before one could tap her on the shoulder, she turned her head slightly, not even bothering to face them completely.  “Yes?” she asked indifferently.

“Well, look who it is,” sneered one girl, her black ponytail practically bristling.  “It’s the little bookworm.  Out to get some sun, you pale-faced snot?”

Carole raised a brow, and said in the same, emotionless voice, “Yes, I am.”  She turned her back on them.

“Hey, listen to me, I’m talking to you!”  The girl's face started to purple.    

“Nancy, let’s just go,” urged her shorter companion.

“After the little tattletale mouthed off to the teacher about us cheating?   _ No— _ ”

“Nancy...”

All the while, Carole patiently waited for her order, undisturbed by the racket.

“She can’t get away with this, April!  She won’t!”  Nancy snatched Sandra’s milkshake, the closest object to her, and flung it over the girl's mane of blonde hair.  Carole visibly stiffened as the cold beverage ran down her back, but otherwise did not react.

The silence was deafening, and even the low radio seemed loud.

“What is going on here?” exclaimed a familiar voice.  The girls whipped their heads towards the door.

“Miss Clellan?” gasped Nikki.  There were similar exclamations throughout the small parlor.

She ran up to Carole, grabbing a napkin to wipe up the milkshake that was dripping from her hair, but Carole pushed her politely yet firmly back.  “I’m fine,” was the reply.

“No, you’re not, you’ve got ice cream all over you!  Let me—”

“Miss, here’s your frozen—what happened?”  One of the waitresses had come up and gaped as she placed the little cup on the counter.

Carole merely picked up the proffered treat, and took a bite.  She drew out a few bills, and left them on the counter.  “Keep the change,” she said, walking out, her long hair still dripping.

“Uh—what happened?” said the perplexed waitress.

It wasn’t until then Miss Clellan stirred out of her shock, and she glared at Nancy.  “Twenty demerits, Miss Lawrence.  Who do you think you are?”  The girl opened her mouth to protest when April clamped her hand down on her arm and hauled her outside.

“What were you thinking—” April screeched, but the rest was cut off when the door slammed.

Slowly, the crowd turned back to their tables, and conversation resumed again.  Miranda inwardly grinned, delighted at what she had just seen, but kept her thoughts to herself.  Candace looked merely bored by the spectacle, while Nikki’s eyes were eager, greedy.  Sandra pushed back her page-boy haircut, and let out a sigh, disgruntled. 

Then Miss Clellan noticed the four seated in a booth.  “Hello, girls,” she said, a little ruffled.

Sandra grumbled, “That Nancy owes me a peppermint malted milkshake.”  Candace not-so-subtly kicked her in the shin.  “Ow!”

“We’re fine, Miss Clellan,” Candace answered sweetly.

“I’m so sorry about your milkshake, Sandra, “said Miss Clellan.  “I can pay you back.”

Sandra rapidly shook her head, “Oh no.  I’m fine.”  She coughed, nervous at the idea of taking money from a teacher.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Miss Clellan looked around, and seemingly satisfied that attention had been sufficiently diverted, asked, “Nikki, Miranda...you too, Candace.  I’ve been meaning to ask you three for a favor.”

Nikki straightened, perking up, and Miranda blinked, noticing for the first time her rapidly melting coffee ice cream.  She took a bite and asked Miss Clellan, “Sure, what is it?”

“That Carole,” the English teacher began, “look, I know how unpopular Carole is at school—”

“Unpopular doesn’t even  _ begin _ to cover it,” interjected Miranda.

“—and that she certainly isn’t making it easier on herself acting so—so—”

“Superior?” supplied Candace.

“Could you, I know I’m asking a huge favor, but maybe—try to go easier on her in AP English?”

Apause.  Then Miranda dropped her spoon with a clatter.  “No way,” she snarled.  “Maybe the day she starts going easier on  _ me _ .  Puh-lease!”

Miss Clellan protested, “But look at her, Miranda, she’s always alone—”

Nikki snorted, unable to contain her laughter.  “Carole’s so full of herself that she couldn’t possibly have  _ time _ to be lonely.  I think you’re imagining things.”

“But sometimes people are different than what you expect.  Try actually talking to her?” Miss Clellan pleaded.

_ Being alone and being lonely aren’t necessarily the same.  Carole couldn’t possibly be feeling lonely _ , she thought darkly. __ Miranda thought back to the love letter she had recently sent.   _ I should check Carole’s mailbox tomorrow.  She probably has replied by now.   _ Miranda looked at her teacher, who had sunk to her knees.  “Sorry, Miss Clellan.  You have no idea what you’re asking.  And let’s be honest with ourselves; could you stand to talk to Carole any more than we could?”

At the strange expression that stood out in relief against the sharp light on Clellan’s face, the table erupted in laughter.  Miranda gazed at it curiously; there was something in her face that was not being said, but she didn't know what it meant.  After the laughter subsided, the woman sighed.  “It was worth a try.” she said, and Candace gave her a polite smile.  “It was nice seeing you girls outside of school.”

“You too,” replied Miranda.

“Same here,” echoed Candace, and the teacher turned away, heading to the sales counter.  The four waited until she had left.

“Well, that was interesting,” breathed Candace.

Nikki started chattering nervously, “I can’t believe it.  I’d sooner throw Carole to a den of cannibals than—than—”

“How did you come to know these cannibals?” asked Sandra.  “Are they around these parts?”  It was a habit of hers to pick at Nikki's illogical statements.  

“...oh, whatever, you know what I mean!”

“No, I haven’t a clue,” she replied, her glasses gleaming in the florescent light.

The table erupted in laughter again, and Miranda shook her head, watching Nikki fumble for a comeback.

* * *

 

Later, as the four were exiting Uncle John's, the waiter who had been serving them asked, “Wait up.”  Miranda hid her wince when she saw it was him; she hadn't missed the way he had kept staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

“Go on ahead,” she told the others, and Candace and she shared a glance, then a smirk.  Looked like the blonde had made the same guess she had.   Sandra and Nikki went on ahead, Candace trailing behind them.

The boy in question swallowed nervously, scratching at his pustule covered face.  Miranda hid her grimace.  “I've seen you come to Uncle John's every so often,” the boy said, trying to be casual.  “What's your name?”

“Miranda,” she said, attempting to be polite.  

“That's a nice name,” Evan said.  “I'm Evan,” he said, offering his hand.  

She didn't take it.  “I know, saw your name tag.”  Not wanting to drag this out, she asked, “What do you want?”

“Uh...that is...could I see you again?” Evan was shifting back and forth on his feet, his posture slovenly.  She began to examine her fingernails, avoiding his gaze, which felt like it was leaving a slimy film wherever it passed over her.

“What for?”  She noted that Candace was hidden in the shadows of the next building over.   _ Make it quick and be merciless, or you’ll give her something to talk about. _  At least it was someone she genuinely  _ didn’t  _ want around.

He stared at her.  “What do you mean?  I just want to meet up with you again, maybe...somewhere outside of work?”

Miranda sighed, pushing back one of her red bangs, thinking rapidly.  “Hold up a second.  You think this,” she gestured to him, a boy who couldn't even stand up straight, his pants falling off, and his dirty blond hair greasy, and then back to herself, her red hair neatly brushed and tied up, dressed in custom-tailored jeans which complimented her figure, “could work?”

“Uh...” the boy stuttered.

“I'm a nice girl, so I'll say this in terms you'll understand,” Miranda said, swallowing quietly, “I've met dogs with more charming personalities than yours.  I would suggest you not quit your job, but unfortunately, Uncle John is closing for the season, isn't it?”  To make herself clear, she added, “Good luck with that.”

She turned her back on him, and her cheeks red with embarrassment or shame, Miranda wasn’t sure.  She turned and headed after her friends, leaving Evan behind in the neon light of Uncle John's, a desolate figure in the cold town of Madison.


End file.
